


Warriors Don't Cry

by pickalily



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, F/M, Marley is the worst, Pieck is best girl, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:20:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28059831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pickalily/pseuds/pickalily
Summary: From a young age, Porco was taught to be the perfect warrior. When the time came for him to serve his country, the opportunity was snatched from right under him. Years later, Pieck returns with the news that Porco is being given another chance to serve Marley, but this time he finds that he's not equipped for the task at all.
Relationships: Porco Galliard/Pieck
Comments: 12
Kudos: 63





	Warriors Don't Cry

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! I hope you are all doing well :) Someone requested that I write a GalliPieck, but I think I veered too far from the prompt. I liked what I wrote too much to throw it away though. It's a little less a GalliPieck fic than it is a fic about Porco, but I really enjoy subtle romance so I believe the tag is still appropriate. 
> 
> The timeline for this might be a bit confusing, but the majority of this fic takes place during the first half of s3 or Historia's arc in the manga. It's the sliver of the series where Reiner and Bertholdt have returned to Liberio with Ymir. I hope that's helpful ^^ 
> 
> I wrote this while listening to Jonghyun's ["Let Me Out"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jEJ7FUFTO8E). He does songs about loneliness very well, and I thought it matched the tone of this fic very well. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy it ^^

There are certain things that you’re trained for as a warrior cadet. By the time Porco was eleven, he could assemble a rifle with his eyes closed, skin a rabbit, and disarm a fully grown man. The only thing that his teachers didn’t prepare Porco for was the unexpectedly overwhelming rejection he was faced with after Reiner Braun was chosen to wield the power of the Armored Titan instead of him. He had to face that challenge alone, teeth gritted and head held high so that the tears wouldn’t fall. He watched, twelve years old as his brother Marcel boarded a ship with other Titan Holders and he didn’t wave as they sailed away, instead giving them a single solitary salute before they disappeared over the horizon. 

Porco realizes soon after that they never prepared him for what happens after rejection. He was a twelve-year-old boy with the ability to kill a man with his bare hands and, with no other Titans for him to serve as a host, no real purpose. In the past, he could turn to Marcel for guidance, but Marcel is gone and Porco doesn’t know when he’ll come back, or even if he’ll ever come back at all. Speaking to his parents isn’t an option; he’s only a disappointment to them and they can barely stand to look at him, preferring instead to gaze out the window and wonder aloud how Marcel is doing. The friends that hadn’t left him for Paradis had abandoned him long ago, jealous that he was handpicked to become a warrior candidate and not them. Porco has no doubt that they would sneer at him if he were to go to them now. They would tell him that he’s no more special than them and he should be satisfied with sacrificing his life for Marley like the rest of them. The only person Porco can think of turning to is Pieck, the only other Titan Shifter aside from Chief Jaeger to remain in Liberio, but he can’t get close to her even if he wanted to. Whenever he asks for her, the military officials always turn him away, scolding him for wanting to take up such an honorable warrior’s precious time. So he turns to his last resort: a military officer who used to serve as one of his instructors when he was still a warrior cadet. His former instructor’s answer is to hand Porco a rifle and point him towards the battlefield. 

Porco spends the next three years surrounded by the sounds of gunshots and the cries of comrades and enemies as they fall around him. He doesn’t know how many people he kills or how many friends have died alongside him. There used to be a man much older than Porco who used to sit beside him on the train. He was probably in his thirties, sturdy and tall, and he’d flash a crooked smile at Porco every time they boarded. The man would joke about his kill count, playfully elbowing Porco and asking him how many people the boy planned to take down today. Porco never responded. He didn’t even offer the man so much as a smile or nod in acknowledgment, but the man’s constant presence was a comfort to him. Porco got accustomed to seeing the man every time he was assigned to the battlefield. It was stupid to think that the man would always be there to greet him and joke so carelessly about being in battle. Porco knew that, and yet he was surprised when a day came and the man didn’t board the train. He never saw that man again. Porco never even learned the man’s name. He never thought to ask. 

Nobody told him how to grieve, so Porco found a half-empty bottle of gin on the top shelf of the pantry and drank until he could feel it burning through his veins. He woke up on the floor with the empty bottle in his hand, a terrible headache, and a mouth as dry as the desert. After shuffling to the bathroom and taking a piss, he collapsed back on his bedroom floor and slept there again until he woke up in the late afternoon. He put the bottle of gin back on the shelf, not bothering to fill it with water to disguise the fact that he had drank it all. That night, his father came home and, after discovering the bottle of gin completely depleted, told Porco to either pick up another bottle next time or let his mother know so she could buy one when she was at the shop. His father grumbled something about how he wouldn’t be able to have his evening gin under his breath before disappearing into the pantry and deciding on a dissatisfactory glass of whiskey. 

Porco learns how to drink after that, sometimes at home or sometimes in seedy bars where they don’t care how old you are as long as you have money. He develops a taste for bourbon and gin, preferring them straight instead of mixed with something else, although he’ll drink anything that’s put in front of him. He doesn’t care if it’s the cheap shit that only the drunks in the streets gulp down or the expensive stuff that military officials keep locked in their fancy wooden cabinets. Porco finds that anything will get you drunk as long as you drink enough of it. 

Porco finds out about the return of the Warriors one night in a bar that’s falling apart and should have been shut down years ago. He probably should have been at home getting a good night’s rest so that he could meet with the Warriors and help prepare for whatever mission the military officials assigned him next, but he couldn’t imagine facing his brother again after all these years. Worse, he couldn’t imagine what he’d do if Marcel never stepped off the ship, if Marcel wasn’t on the ship, if Marcel never returned at all. Porco doesn’t like that thought, not at all, so he washes it down with a swig of bourbon before calling the server for another glass as the older men laugh because it’s so amusing to watch a fifteen-year-old get drunk off his ass. 

He lays his head down on the wooden table, his fingers idly picking at a splinter in the surface. Porco’s vision is hazy, the lights all shimmering too brightly as the sound of laughter swims around him. He bangs at the table and calls for the server to hurry up, slurring his words badly. The other men laugh and repeat his request, their tones mocking. When the server finally walks over with the glass of bourbon, Porco marvels at its golden-brown color. It’s like ambrosia, he thinks as he pulls the glass towards him, nearly spilling it on himself in his haste. Just as he’s about to tip the glass over to meet his lips, a hand puts itself forcefully on the cup and slaps it down, a bit of the bourbon spilling out. 

“He’s done,” a voice announces. It’s familiar, Porco thinks, but it doesn’t sound like a voice that he’s heard in a while. When he looks up, he sees a girl his age with long black hair down to her shoulders looking down at him with disappointment on her face. 

“P-Pieck?” he asks, barely able to recall her name. He tries to grab the glass out from under her hand, but it doesn’t budge when he tugs at it. Porco glares up at her while his drinking companions laugh. “‘M still drinkin’. Not drunk ‘nuff yet.” He hiccups. 

“I think you’ve had much more than enough to drink,” Pieck replies. She ignores the booing from the men around her. She pulls the glass away from Porco and pushes it to the other side of the table. Extending a hand, she beckons for Porco. “Come on, Porco. You have to go.” 

“He can’t go yet,” a man calls out. He and his companions crowd around the teenagers, sneering down at them. “He paid for that glass. It’d be a waste of his money if he left without drinking it.” 

Porco nods with his eyes closed. “They’re righ’. Gotta drink up. Paid a good penny for it.” He reaches out for it, fingers wiggling. 

Pieck looks from Porco to the drink and sighs. “You’re an idiot,” she tells him before picking up the glass and drinking it herself. She drinks the entire thing in one gulp, hissing as it burns down her throat and gagging at the taste of it. The men around her are too stunned to hoot and holler like they did before, so she takes this chance to grab Porco and pull him out of the bar. It’s no easy task; Porco is far bigger than her and, Porco notices later, she has something stuffed under her arm. 

“What are those?” he asks, pointing at her side but he miscalculates the position of his finger and accidentally pokes her in the face. 

She shoves Porco’s hand away and glances distracted in the direction he’s looking. “Oh. Those are my crutches,” she replies as she awkwardly half-carry half-drags him while hobbling on her crutches. 

Porco wrinkles his nose. “You always have them?” he asks. “I don’t remember you having ‘em before.” He leans forward to look at them better and nearly tips over the both of them in the process. 

“Shit! Walk properly, will you?” Pieck scolds as she pulls him back so that they don’t go tumbling into the pavement. They walk a few more paces before Pieck answers his question. “I just started using them recently. I get too tired walking by myself otherwise.” 

“Oh.” 

They continue on like that for a while, Porco leaning heavily on Pieck while she struggles to the both of them to his house. His house isn’t very far from the rundown bar. Porco can see his house now (or at least what he thinks is his house). The lights are on downstairs but the windows of the bedroom Porco used to share with Marcel are still dark. 

“You’re not going to ask me where Marcel is?” Pieck huffs as she carries him to the door. She struggles up the steps, but she manages to get the both of them up before she knocks on the door. 

“Hmm,” Porco says in reply. He can hear the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door. After a moment, he shakes his head. “No.” 

Pieck only shrugs. 

Porco’s mother opens the door, her eyes as dead as ever. Behind her is his father who wears the same empty expression. Porco had thought that Marcel’s return would make his parents a little livelier, but maybe even the return of their most treasured son wouldn't change how they’ve been for years.

“Pieck, we didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” says Porco’s mother with a vacant smile that disappears once her eyes glaze over to look at her son. “Porco. You’re a mess.” She doesn’t sound very surprised. She shouldn’t be. She’s seen him like this on more than one occasion. 

“Just leave me here,” Porco mumbles. He’s already slinking onto the floor, slipping off Pieck’s shoulder and ready to pass out. 

Pieck grabs onto him tightly, throwing his arm back around her shoulders. “I won’t do that,” she hisses. She clears her throat and looks over at Porco’s parents. “Where should I leave him?” 

“Just carry him up to his room if you’re up to it,” Porco’s father replies with a wave of his hand. He’s already turning around, abandoning both his son and Pieck. He doesn’t want to deal with such a mess of a son. 

“It’s upstairs, dear,” Porco’s mother says helpfully but not offering any aid to help Pieck carry Porco up the stairs. She’s scurrying off to the kitchen to avoid having to deal with him any longer. Porco thinks that’s the most help she’s ever offered him since he was a child. 

Pieck stands there stunned for a moment until she realizes Porco is close to dozing off. She shakes him a bit, hissing at him to stay awake before she practically drags him up the stairs. He complains about how rough she is; she’s not strong enough to carry him properly so she’s really just pulling him up the stairs, ignoring Porco whenever he whines about how his feet are hitting the stairs. It takes too long and his feet and ankles will probably be littered with purple and blue in the morning, but Pieck eventually gets him to his room, letting him fall gracelessly onto his bed. 

“You’re so fucking heavy,” Pieck sighs. The bed beside Porco’s, the bed that’s supposed to belong to Marcel, is empty, but she collapses beside Porco, the mattress creaking underneath their weight. They stay there like that, their breathing the only sound in the silence. 

Porco opens his eyes to stare at the wooden boards in the ceiling. After a moment, he asks, “Where’s Marcel?” 

Pieck doesn’t answer immediately. “He’s dead,” she finally answers. She doesn’t look at him as she speaks, instead fixing her gaze overhead just like him. He wonders if she’s looking at the cracks between the boards, if she can see the stars that are peeking through the gaps. 

“Oh,” Porco replies.

It’s strange, hearing that Marcel is dead. Porco’s not really sure how he feels about it. Nobody’s ever told him what to do if his brother dies. Deep down, he had a feeling that Marcel was dead. The mission on Paradis was only supposed to take a few years. It was simple, the officials had explained to the Warriors: they destroy the Walls, they infiltrate the military, they obtain the Coordinate, and they get out. Even a few children could manage that. But the years passed and they heard no news from the Warriors. Eventually, the military officials became impatient and sent the Beast and Cart Titans to collect the other Warriors. Porco’s parents had shrugged their shoulders at the news, saying that perhaps the Warriors had needed more help than anyone had anticipated, but Porco thinks they also knew that it would be a miracle if any of the original Warriors came back alive. He had hoped that Marcel would be one of the lucky few, but it seems that fortune was not on Marcel’s side. 

Curiously enough, confirmation of Marcel’s death doesn’t faze Porco much. Maybe he feels a little emptier inside, but it’s not that much different from how he usually feels. It’s not something another drink can’t fix, Porco thinks. His head is fuzzy and he can hardly lift his limbs. The alcohol probably isn’t out of his system, but his mouth is feeling parched already and all he wants now is another drink in his hand, something stronger this time. He wants it to hurt as it burns down his throat, something that will light a flame in his stomach, something that will set him on fire and leave him burning until there’s nothing left but ashes. 

“You’re not going to ask about Marcel?” Pieck asks. She rolls over onto her side, looking at Porco with wide eyes as she rests on her arm. “You don’t want to know how he died or where his body is?” 

Those seem like the types of questions Porco should be asking, but he doesn’t know how. Nobody’s ever told him to ask these kinds of things. He should probably be repeating Pieck’s questions, parroting them back to her in a tone filled with grief, but he lays silently beside her still staring up at the ceiling. He closes his eyes and listens to the sound of his own breathing. After a bit, he can hear Pieck shift in the bed, somehow not falling off even though this bed can’t comfortably fit the both of them. 

“No. I don’t want to know anything,” he finally says to Pieck. His eyes close, shutting them tightly. It’s like he can see galaxies on the back of his eyelids. He wonders if it’s anything similar to what the night skies looked like in Paradis. 

Back when he was still a cadet, the military officials would talk about how technologically incompetent the Eldians on Paradis were, how they hardly had any lights outside to pollute the night sky. He always thought he would see them someday, but fate wouldn’t have it. Marcel did, though. Porco wonders how many star-filled skies Marcel saw out on Paradis before he died. 

Porco’s eyes open. “Were the stars prettier out on Paradis?” he asks Pieck. 

Pieck doesn’t answer right away. She must think Porco is strange for asking about something as trivial as stars when he’s just learned about his brother’s death, but she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she replies, “They were beautiful.” 

He doesn’t know if she’s telling him the truth or if she’s just saying that to make him feel better. Her words do put him more at ease and he relaxes in bed beside her. “Good,” he says, although he’s not really talking to her anymore. He closes his eyes again, not tightly this time, and he feels himself slipping away. It hurts a little bit when he breathes, cold as he takes ragged breaths and his lungs fill with air, but he kind of likes the pain. It feels better than nothing. 

“Porco?” 

“Hm?” 

“You’re not going to cry?” Pieck asks. 

Porco doesn’t open his eyes. “Why would I cry?” 

The bed shifts slightly as Pieck shrugs. “Because it’s good to cry every once in a while,” she tells him, but it’s the first he’s hearing it. 

Porco doesn’t ever remember crying, at least not since he was a child. He probably hasn’t cried in years, but maybe he should now. Maybe he should be crying for Marcel, the only brother he’s known and the one he’ll never see again. Maybe he should have tears streaming down his face as he calls Marcel’s name, asking every god on earth why they took his brother so soon. Maybe he should be screaming at the sky, sobbing between every curse he tossed at the cruel gods that watched him. He doesn’t though. He just lays there beside Pieck, his hands folded on his stomach and eyes closed. 

“Maybe I’ll try that sometime,” Porco mumbles. 

“You should.” 

There’s a dip in the bed and then the weight beside Porco disappears. He hears her walk away, her footsteps quiet against the creaky floorboards. The door opens and shuts, and Pieck is gone. When Porco wakes up the next morning, he rolls over on the bed and thinks that he’s never felt more alone. 

* * *

Marcel’s funeral takes place one week after the Warriors have returned. They call it a return, but only two of the Warriors have made it home: Reiner and Bertholdt. Annie doesn’t come back, but at least she’s still alive. She’s trapped, Reiner reported, held captive in a block of crystal in an underground prison in Paradis. He doesn’t talk about how Marcel died even when his superiors ask him. Instead, he looks at his feet and mumbles something about Marcel being overtaken by a mindless Titan, the same one they managed to capture. Porco doesn’t know what the Shifter looks like and finds that he doesn’t want to. He’s busy enough as it is already without seeking his brother’s killer. 

His mother says she’ll handle the funeral arrangements, but all she does is cry all day while Porco’s father stays in the living room drinking, so the responsibility falls on Porco. He doesn’t know how to prepare for a funeral. It’s not the sort of thing people teach you. He visits the usual places — the flower shop, the funeral home, the cemetery — and he does his best. 

Porco doesn’t know what kind of flowers to buy, if they need to be beautiful or if they have to have some kind of meaning. He doesn’t even know how to ask the florist for help. He wanders around the shop looking at all the flowers, some of them so rare and beautiful that Porco doesn’t know if he even knows their names. He should probably pick something fancy, something like the vibrant star-shaped flower with petals as big as his hand. The military had assured him that all the funeral expenses would be taken care of by them. His family wouldn’t need to put out a penny towards Marcel’s funeral. It was the least Marley could do to honor such a loyal Warrior. Still, Porco finds himself gravitating towards the plain-looking flowers, ones that he had seen in the fields as he and his classmates ran up the hills during their training. He reaches out his hand, his fingers brushing against the soft petals of daisies, asters, and cosmos. They’re probably too simple for someone like Marcel. It might even be insulting to get flowers he could have picked from any field and present them at Marcel’s funeral, but Porco finds himself calling the florist and asking if they could arrange some bouquets with the wildflowers. 

“Of course,” the florist hums, plucking out the flowers that Porco had pointed out. The flowers look nice together even if they don’t cost half as much as the other flowers. “Is it a happy occasion?” 

Porco hesitates to answer. He’s not sure how to go about telling others about his deceased brother, although he’s sure that the florist has arranged plenty of bouquets for the funerals of other strangers. It’s not something he needs to hide. In fact, he should probably be proudly puffing out his chest as he tells the florist about how his brother had valiantly given his life for Marley, but he finds himself forcing his lips into a stiff smile. 

“Yes,” he nods. 

Purchasing the casket is even more difficult. Porco isn’t sure what he should be looking for in a coffin or why he’s looking for one at all. There won’t be a body buried inside it, but all of the coffins for the past Warriors are empty too. It’s tradition, the military officials explained, to have an empty coffin buried to honor the fallen Warrior. Porco thinks even if it were possible to bury Marcel’s body, the coffin wouldn’t matter at all. Who cares about their casket when they’re dead and buried six feet underground? 

It’s appalling how expensive caskets can be, Porco finds. There are caskets made out of mahogany, oak, and poplar. Some of them are carved with intricate designs while some are even painted with a thin layer of gold. He’s no doubt expected to purchase one of the most expensive caskets, maybe the mahogany one with gilded flowers running up and down the sides and lined with velvet on the inside. Porco’s hand rests on the casket feeling how soft the fabric is on the inside, rubbing the soft material between his fingers. He tries to imagine Marcel lying inside it, hands crossed over his chest and his eyes closed as if in peaceful slumber, but he comes up with nothing. All he can think about what a waste it would be to buy something so expensive, something that probably costs more than his entire house. 

He pulls his hand and wanders towards the plainer caskets, the ones that open and close without any fancy clasps at the side and are made so poorly that their surfaces are splintering. Porco stops at one that’s a strange yellow-brown color, its tones uneven the more he looked at it. It doesn’t have any fabric or cushioning on the inside and it’s much smaller than the other caskets. It’s clearly made for a child, hardly taller than Porco is himself. He can allow himself to buy this one, he thinks. Marcel probably wasn’t any bigger than Porco was before he died, although he’s not even sure if Marcel lived long enough to even hit a growth spurt. But maybe he was lucky. 

“Excuse me,” Porco says as he waves down a staff member working in the shop. He puts a hand down, slapping the surface of the casket. He only winces slightly when splinters pierce his skin. “I’ll be taking this one, please.” 

The staff member looks at the casket and raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure, sir? We have much better ones in our selection,” he says. “I can help you if you’d like.” 

Help. Porco could use a little help in navigating this mess of a life, but how does he go about asking for it? He has so many questions that he doesn’t even know where to begin. It would be better not to ask them at all. 

He smiles politely at the employee, lips drawn tight in a thin line. “No, thank you. This one will do,” he replies. 

The staff looks unconvinced but they give Porco a nod and mark the coffin off before waving over a coworker so that they can pack the casket up. 

As Porco waits, he looks down at his hand, surprised to find it bleeding from all the little splinters that have pricked him. Idly, he picks at them, pulling them out of his skin and thinking it strange that they don’t hurt at all.

* * *

More people come to the wake than Porco recognizes. His mother is busy crying in the corner while his father is occupied with a glass of whiskey, so Porco is left to greet people he’s never met before and thank them for paying their respects to his brother. Some of them introduce themselves, offering stories about Marcel and his bravery or telling Porco how admirable they thought his brother was. Porco doesn’t bother remembering or even listening to any of them. He can feel his eyes glaze over whenever anybody tries to talk to him, not bothering to look even the least bit engaged in their attempts to converse with him. Nobody ever says anything to him about it. It might be that they don’t notice or maybe they’re too polite to point it out. Even if they did say anything, Porco doubts it would change much. Either way, Marcel is still dead and Porco would want to be anywhere else but here. 

“What a … peculiar flower arrangement,” says an officer, one that Porco can’t remember the name of. He never bothered to remember their names anymore. It was only fair after they had seemed to forget Porco’s name after he had dropped off the list of warrior candidates. It’s strange how they’ve finally managed to remember it after all these years. 

Another military official brings his hand to the floral arrangement, a wreath of common flowers that anyone could have found anywhere, that Porco had bought a few days prior. The tips of his fingers brush against the petals of a wildflower. He wrinkles his nose when the flower falls from the arrangement and onto the floor. He doesn’t bother to pick it up, instead saying to Porco, “You should have bought something nicer to honor your brother. He’s a hero, you know.” 

_ I’m sure my brother won’t mind. He’s dead, you see _ , Porco wants to reply, but he bites back his answer. “I’m sorry. This is my first time doing anything like this,” Porco tells the officers. 

The first officer that had spoken simply shakes his head, clicking his tongue in disappointment. “Whatever money you haven’t spent on this service the military will deliver to your family,” the man says. He rubs at the stubble on his chin. “It’s the least we could do to thank your brother for the sacrifice your brother has made for the country.” 

_ The least you could have done was stay away _ , Porco thinks. They should have never come. Marcel would have been better off if the military had ignored him, forgotten about him just like they had forgotten about Porco. Maybe then Marcel would still be alive. Now they’re offering his family money as if any amount will make up for their loss, as if it’s their own money they’re offering, as if the military hadn’t taken this money out of taxes they had collected from Eldians in Porco’s neighborhood that could hardly scrape up enough money to pay for food. 

Porco hangs his head and mumbles a thank you, but they don’t hear the insincerity in his voice. One of the officers claps him on the shoulder and gives Porco what he thinks is a comforting pat, but when he looks up the hand is already falling from his shoulder and the officers are turning to leave. 

“Are you not staying for the service?” he asks in surprise. 

“Ah, we have important business to attend to today,” another officer says. The bastard doesn’t even have the decency to look apologetic. No matter how important they say Marcel’s sacrifice is, the officers won’t even put aside time to attend the Warrior’s funeral. 

“I see,” Porco says numbly. “Thank you for coming. I’m sure Marcel would have been honored.” 

Even though the military officials left after paying their respects, Chief Jaeger and Pieck stay for the funeral. Reiner doesn’t show up at all. Pieck explains that Reiner is having difficulty dealing with it all. He’s still trying to adjust to being back in Liberio, she says, and he’s suffering from grief and PTSD. Even though he’s not here, he’s sorry for their loss and is sending his hopes and prayers to the Galliard family. Bertholdt at least has the manners to show up looking deathly pale and gaunt, but he mumbles his own apologies to Porco before running away looking sick. 

Zeke only stays for a minute. He speaks with Porco for a bit, telling Porco how selfless and brave Marcel had been. Porco wants to ask how Zeke knew when he had hardly known Marcel, but Zeke leaves before the words can come out of his mouth, walking over to talk to some of the other guests that had attended. He does a far better job at mingling with guests than Porco does. 

“Are you okay?” Pieck asks. She stands beside him in front of Marcel’s tombstone, watching as the cemetery workers begin to lower Marcel’s empty coffin in the grave. She also has a tombstone a few meters away from Marcel’s. Her name is already etched onto the marble along with her birthdate. The only thing missing is her date of death. 

Porco keeps his eyes straight ahead, watching Marcel’s coffin. There are bouquets of flowers piled on top of the tiny wooden casket, most much nicer than the ones he had bought for Marcel. Some are from the military officials, others from Zeke and Pieck, but many more are from people Porco can’t even remember. He thinks it’s such a waste for the flowers to be rearranged so beautifully only to be buried in the ground. There isn’t even a body in the coffin for the flowers to rot with. 

“I’m fine,” Porco murmurs. He stands so close to Pieck that their arms brush, but he doesn’t move away. The others around them are crying, some sobbing while others watch with tears trickling down their faces. He and Pieck are the only ones that aren’t crying. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?” 

Pieck doesn’t point out that his mother is throwing herself at the coffin, screaming for her son that will never return. She doesn’t mention his father who’s too blackout drunk that he had to be carried up to the gravesite. She doesn’t talk about the fact that they’re burying an empty casket for a brother that Porco will never see again. Instead, she shrugs. 

“If you’re okay, then that’s fine,” she replies. There’s a pause. “And if you’re not okay … that’s fine too.” 

As the cemetery workers begin to pile dirt onto the coffin, Porco’s mother begins to wail louder. Four military officers have to hold her back as she tries to throw herself at the coffin once more. Around them, people weep, but not Porco. He just watches in silence as the dirt continues to pile onto Marcel’s grave until the hole is completely filled. 

As the workers begin to clean up the site and people begin to trickle away, Porco feels someone’s hand reach for his. He looks down to see Pieck awkwardly trying to hold his hand, trying to clamp her crutch securely under her arm so that it doesn’t fall. It’s strange, but he doesn’t try to stop her. He doesn’t remember the last time anyone’s held his hand, but it’s strangely comforting having Pieck’s hand wrapped around his. Porco lets go but only for a moment so that he can slip his fingers between hers. Pieck looks down, surprised, but says nothing. 

They watch as the cemetery workers even out the dirt on the grave. Like bystanders, they remain rooted where they stand even as Porco’s mother throws herself at the gravesite, dirt staining her clothes while Porco’s father drunkenly calls out for Marcel. Porco lets others care for his parents, thinking it’s only fair to allow his parents the same amount of care they had given him over these past five years. 

Porco wonders if Marcel would be disappointed if he could see his younger brother now, completely detached from everything around him with only Pieck’s hand to tether him down. A part of Porco says that it doesn’t matter because Marcel is dead. Even if Marcel were alive, it’s his fault that Porco is in this mess. Everything was supposed to be better for their family when Marcel was chosen as a Warrior. Instead, everything turned to shit: their mother would cry long into the night, their father became more and more absent, and Porco felt so invisible that he turned to alcohol to numb the empty void in his chest that felt like it was swallowing him whole. All Marcel had to do was come home a hero and everything would be fixed, Porco thought, but he didn’t. His stupid brother couldn’t even do that right. He had to die a hero and now nothing will ever go back to the way it was supposed to be: with the four of them together like they were when Porco was a child, before he even knew what being a warrior was. 

“Are you going to cry?” Pieck asks, and Porco realizes that he’s still holding her hand. He’s squeezing so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. Hastily, he mumbles an apology and lets go, but Pieck still holds onto him. She’s looking at him with a cautious expression, one she had worn around him only a few weeks before. It’s like she’s waiting for something to happen. “You can cry if you want to.” 

But Pieck is wrong. 

Porco can feel his throat swell with a lump he can’t quite swallow down no matter how hard he tries. It hurts whenever he tries, but it keeps growing bigger with each swallow. His eyes are moist with tears that will never fall even as his vision becomes blurry and he can hardly make out the words carved on Marcel’s tombstone. It’s as if his body is filling up with years of fury and pain and anger and hurt, but he has no way of letting it out. He’s like a dam that’s almost full to bursting, but he doesn’t know how to break. Even if he wanted to cry, he can’t. 

So Porco just stands there, hand limp even as Pieck squeezes it tightly in hers, shaking his head dumbly. “I’m fine,” he tells her, but even he can tell how hollow his words sound. 

Thankfully, Pieck doesn’t say anything more. She just looks ahead just as Porco does, standing in silence beside him as everyone else sheds their tears, overflowing.

* * *

The military doesn’t even have the decency to wait even a day after the funeral before sending a notice to Porco’s family, telling them that Porco had been chosen as the next Warrior candidate. It was an honor, they said, failing to mention that that very same honor was the one that killed Marcel, or perhaps they had forgotten him already. At the very least, Zeke looks slightly apologetic as he comes with the notice. The Chief is even polite enough to ask after Porco’s parents, although Porco doesn’t have an answer. He mumbles a lie about how his family is coping and takes the envelope from Zeke, promising to read it before appearing at the ceremony at the end of the week. 

When Porco tells his parents, there is no celebration the way there was five years ago when Marcel was chosen. His father simply nods, eyes distant as he raises his glass to his lips to take another sip of gin. His mother doesn’t even seem as if she’s heard, sobbing over every word that comes out of Porco’s mouth as if wailing Marcel’s name at the heavens will somehow bring her son back to her. It’s no use sharing the news with them, Porco decides, and disappears up the stairs to his room, but not without snatching the unopened bottle of gin from the pantry on his way up. 

As the door falls shut behind him, Porco takes a seat on his bed that creaks under his weight. He breaks the wax seal on the envelope and pulls out the notice inside. He scans the words on the paper, thinking about how similar they are to the words he had seen five years ago except this time it’s his name that’s written down instead of Marcel’s. Porco had been envious back then, so angry that he could hardly stand to be in the same room as Marcel. He should be proud now, his chest swelling as he reads the letter from the military commander that says he’s been chosen as the one to wield the Jaw Titan’s power. Instead, he feels the pit of his stomach alight with a flame of fury. He stares down at the commander’s signature at the bottom of the paper, how it’s signed with such an extravagant flourish, and it only infuriates him more. Unable to stare at it any longer, Porco tears the paper in half, then quarters, then eighths. He shreds the paper into smaller pieces until he cannot tear them anymore. He crumples the bits of paper into his hand for good measure before letting them flutter from his open palm, watching as they flutter onto the ground. 

He falls against the mattress, his head landing with a soft  _ thud _ against his pillow. Blindly, Porco reaches for the bottle of gin that he had placed on his dresser. His thumb traces over the top of the bottle before flicking off the cork with a loud  _ pop _ ! Without a second thought, he brings the bottle to his lips, not bothering to adjust himself even as the alcohol spills out of the bottle and onto his clothes. Porco knows he’s probably gotten some gin on his mattress and that he should probably get up and clean his sheets if he doesn’t want it to leave a stain, but he’s far too exhausted to even think about washing his sheets so he continues to drink. 

The gin burns down Porco’s throat, hot and searing, as he guzzles it down like a fish drinking water. He wants to drown in it, so he takes gulp after gulp until he can feel his lungs begin to fill with alcohol and he begins to choke. He sits up, spluttering, and coughs so hard that he spits up gin. It had tasted sweet when he had been drinking it, but now it just tastes bitter and sick on his tongue. Disgusted, he sets the bottle on the floor beside his bed before curling up on his mattress, hating the way he stinks of dirt and sweat and alcohol. 

Porco rolls onto his back, hand on his stomach, and stares up at the ceiling. The other night, he had been able to see through the cracks in his ceiling and count the stars. Now he can’t see anything. It’s just a large void hanging overhead, and he wonders where all the stars have gone. 

He turns, expecting to see Pieck or maybe even Marcel lying beside him, but there is no one and Porco has never felt more alone. 

_ Cry _ , a voice says, soft and sweet and full of pity. It sounds familiar, Porco thinks. It sounds an awful lot like Pieck.  _ You’re alone now, so it’s okay if you cry _ . 

But he can’t. He can’t even as that strange lump begins to appear in his throat again, hurting even as he swallows and tries to drown it under more alcohol. He can’t cry even as he takes each shuddering breath, shaking as he tries to steady it. He can’t even as his eyes begin to sting and burn from tears that refuse to fall. Porco can’t cry, so he falls asleep instead even as his chest hurts from keeping in this sadness that continues to fill him.

* * *

Porco arrives at the ceremony that weekend, ignoring the disapproving looks of the military officials as he strolls inside with his usual ratty attire. War Chief Zeke raises an eyebrow when he sees Porco in slacks with holes in the knees and his shirt that’s falling apart at the seams, but he doesn’t ask why Porco isn’t dressed in the military uniform that the military had sent to his house earlier that week. The Chief simply greets Porco and gestures for him to join the other Warriors sitting in the seating area specifically reserved for the Titan shifters. It’s supposed to be filled with the six Titans that Marley was in control of - Colossal, Armored, Female, Cart, Beast, and Jaw - but with almost half of the Titans captured by the enemy, the seating area looks depressingly empty. 

“Glad you could make it to your own ceremony,” Pieck says, moving her crutches and laying them on the floor so that Porco has space to sit. She pats the space next to her. “I thought you weren’t going to come.” 

“Why wouldn’t I come?” Porco mumbles as he slides into the seat beside Pieck. “It’s my ceremony.” He glances over at Reiner, who sits further away from the rest. The Armored Titan shifter doesn’t greet him nor does he acknowledge that Porco has even arrived. The blond is staring off into the distance and Porco follows the Warrior’s gaze to the middle of the arena where a girl sits, her arms chained so that she can’t break free. It’s someone he’s never seen before, but he’s heard the officers call her “Ymir.” 

Porco leans over, tilting his chin towards the girl. “Is that …?” 

“She’s the one holder of the Jaw Titan,” Pieck confirms with a nod of her head. “She’s the one that …” Her voice trails off. She doesn’t finish her sentence, but she doesn’t need to. Porco already knows. 

The girl doesn’t look dangerous, not with shackles decorating her ankles and wrists. She looks a little worse for wear after the trip to Marley, her thin frame not much unlike a skeleton. Her scraggly brown hair hangs in her face, her head hanging low. The girl doesn’t resist the chains that bind her, but Porco’s not even sure she has the energy to if she wanted to tug at them. She doesn’t look dangerous at all. She just looks like a girl, one that had gotten caught up in a cruel fate that she probably didn’t deserve. He can’t imagine her killing Marcel. Then again, Porco wonders if anyone would believe the amount of blood he has on his own hands. 

Porco lowers his gaze to look at his feet. It’s probably not wise to have sympathy for his brother’s killer, especially when he’s going to be the one to take her life in a few moments. He shifts his feet uncomfortably, wondering if Marcel had felt this nervous during his own ceremony. He glances sideways at Pieck and mumbles, “Does it hurt?” 

“The transformation?” Pieck asks. Porco nods his head and Pieck hums. “It’s not … painless, but it’s not the worst. More than anything, it’s just physically and mentally draining.” 

Porco purses his lips and nods. “Alright then … thanks.” He sits there sucking on his bottom lip, nibbling it until the sharp, metallic tastes of blood fills his mouth. When Pieck taps his shoulder and offers him her handkerchief, Porco simply shakes his head and brushes her off. He continues to wait in silence, occasionally glancing at the lonely figure in the middle of the arena. 

“Porco.” When Porco looks up, he sees Zeke standing in front of him, the Chief’s hands folded politely behind his back. The Chief’s expression is difficult to read behind his spectacles. Zeke gestures for Porco to stand up and follow him. “It’s time. Come with me.” 

Porco follows Zeke, passing by the military officers that have also come to watch the ceremony. He bows his head they’re greeting and they simply nod in acknowledgment. He passes by them silently, keeping his eyes fixed on the back of Zeke’s head. Zeke says nothing as he leads Porco down a dark stairwell dimly lit with gas lanterns. The only sound is their echoing footsteps on the stone footsteps resounding against the walls. There seem to be no end to the steps, which keep going on deeper and deeper. Porco’s convinced that they must lead to the center of the earth until he sees a light at the very bottom of the stairwell. At the exit, Zeke stops, motioning for two Marley soldiers at the opening waiting for them. 

“The candidate has arrived. Please administer the injection,” Zeke tells them. He’s turning to leave, taking a step back the stairwell when a panicked Porco grabs onto his arm and yanks the War Chief back. 

“Where are you going?” Porco asks. The two soldiers come forward, trying to drag him back by his arms but he shakes them off. “Aren’t you staying?” 

“I’m sorry, Porco,” Zeke says. His voice is sympathetic but his eyes are cold. He removes Porco’s hand from his arm. “This is as far as I go. You’ll be fine on your own.” 

“Wait, don’t -!” Porco calls, but Zeke has already vanished before he can finish his sentence, gone up the dark staircase without even a single glance back. The Warrior is pulled back by the Marleyan soldiers who push him to his knees, one soldier holding him down with his hands behind his back even though Porco does little to resist him. Porco’s face is shoved into the dirt floor and he can taste it on his tongue as the other soldier prepares the serum. 

“Hold still,” the soldier murmurs, flicking at the syringe filled with the ominous green serum. He holds the needle to Porco’s neck, another hand on the Warrior’s neck to stop his trembling. “It’ll only hurt a bit,” he tells Porco before pushing the needle into the Warrior’s skin. 

The initial prick isn’t what hurts. The needle breaking through his skin only stings a little. It’s only when the soldier begins to inject the serum that it begins to hurt, the tiny pin-prick sting building into an unbearable pressure that makes it feel as if Porco’s about to choke. There’s no pain to the end. It continues to build, the serum burning hot as it travels through Porco’s body. 

He can _ feel  _ it, the ghastly green serum bleeding into his body and scorching down his spine. He opens his mouth, but he does not know what words leave his mouth, if they’re pleas for the soldiers to stop the pain or if it’s just incomprehensible noise. 

Porco raises his hand to grab the wrist of the soldier delivering the injection, but the other soldier twists the Warrior’s arm harder, putting his weight on the soon-to-be Titan so that he can’t move. Porco has no other option but to writhe helplessly on the ground, dirt filling his mouth as his head is pushed to the ground to muffle his screams. All the while, he feels the serum taking over his body. It’s sickly and vile as it runs through his veins. He can feel it right behind his eyes, the pressure growing so much that it’s filling his head. Porco squeezes his eyes shut lest his eyes pop out of his head, but he can still feel the pressure build. His head feels as if it’s about to burst. Even when he feels the needle withdrawn from his skin, the pressure still remains at the base of his skull and he can feel the rest of his body pulse in pain. 

When he opens his eyes, he can only see green. “Help,” he croaks, hand reaching out for someone, anyone, but nobody comes to comfort him. The only response Porco receives is a kick in his back and he hears a gate slide down with a  _ thud _ followed by footsteps fleeing from the scene. Hunched over on his knees, Porco groans as he feels his body burning as if someone has lit him with a match and he’s going up in flames. He cries out again as his body grows hotter and hotter and the pain at the base of his neck becomes almost unbearable. Unable to stand it any longer, Porco lifts his head and lets out a blood-curdling howl. 

Just when Porco thinks he might die, there’s a loud  _ crack  _ and a flash like a bolt of lightning comes down and strikes him. It should be the end, Porco thinks, as his body is struck with white light, but he feels oddly light. The pressure is gone from his body and he doesn’t feel as if he’ll burst, but he feels odd. Empty. Hungry.  _ Ravenous _ .

He opens his eyes and they flicker to the only other thing in the open arena that’s within his sight: the girl in tatters on her knees, her arms and legs shackled in chains so that she can’t escape from him. It’s like she was put there especially for him, as if she were  _ made _ for him, and Porco can feel himself stalking towards her even as the girl raises her head and looks at him with eyes filled with despair. Deep down he knows that she’s not just a girl. He knows she has a name, that she has people she loves, and that there are people out there who love her, but he can’t stop himself from picking up his pace, breaking out into a run. Every step he takes shakes the arena, and the pillars that chain the girl in place tremble as Porco skids to a stop. 

He towers above her, casting a shadow on her with his monstrous figure, but she says nothing even as he reaches for her, a gnarled hand enveloping her body. Even when he lifts her, raising her skeletal body to his lips she stays silent and not a cry passes her lips even as his jaws fall open, revealing his teeth. It’s only when he places her head-first into his mouth that she finally lets out a whimper, pathetic and filled with grief, and Porco hears something like a sob when he brings his teeth down onto her head. 

His jaw crushes her skull with an effortless  _ crunch _ , and his mouth fills with the metallic taste of her blood. Mindlessly, he devours the rest of her — arms and legs and all — until she’s no more. Finally satisfied, Porco throws his head back and fills the air with an ungodly howl before his vision fades to black and he feels himself being pulled into the darkness. 

* * *

_ The distant sound of footsteps and light pressure overhead wakes Porco from his years-long slumber. Buried deep underground, layers of dirt cover him like a blanket. It may have been dozens or maybe even hundreds of years since he had last opened his eyes. He can hear the sound of voices, high-pitched and panicked, talking above him. Being inert for so long, his limbs feel useless and his head groggy. He should remain as he is, deep underground. It’s peaceful here, perfect here. Why should he leave? But another part of him, a deeper part of him, a more animalistic side of him, yearns to leave the grave that confines him.  _

Leave this place, _ says a voice at the back of his mind _ . Leave and seek food for it has been years since your last meal.  _ The words remind him of the hollow feeling at the pit of his stomach and suddenly he yearns to fill the vacancy.  _

_ His eyes open to darkness and he reaches out his hands, gnarled fingers digging into the dirt above as he creates his own escape. Porco feels his limbs creaking from years of unuse, but still he digs and digs, determined to seek the source of the noise above him. The dirt is difficult at first, packed so stiffly that Porco might as well be digging through ice, but it becomes easier as he digs further up. His fingertips begin to bleed, but the blood disappears quickly, evaporating from his skin like steam. It doesn’t hurt at all though, he thinks, and the soil becomes so soft that it’s practically falling between his fingers like sand.  _

_ Porco makes the final plunge through the surface, the air cool as it hits his dirt-stained fingers. He grasps at the air only to feel something ― or someone ― slip out of his hand. A shriek cuts through the air like a knife and Porco pulls himself out from the ground, jaws snapping in the hope that he’ll be able to catch some poor prey between his teeth but he comes up empty. Snarling, his head whips back and forth until his eyes land on the people responsible for his awakening: four small children, lost, alone, and afraid. Frozen, they stand in place, eyes widening as he stalks ever closer to them.  _

_ One of the boys, hair dark with an upturned nose, waves his harm helplessly towards the blond boy that stands furthest from the group. “Reiner! Reiner,  _ **_run_ ** _!” he hisses, fingers grasping for the boy’s shirt.  _

_ The boy called Reiner stands there in a daze even as Porco extends his arm and begins to close his hand around his prey. It’s only when he’s about to trap the boy in his fist that the dark-haired boy pushes Reiner to the ground, getting caught in Porco’s grasp instead. Porco can hear the children’s shrieks as he squeezes his hand around the young boy, but he doesn’t stop even when the boy cries out in pain as his bones break under the Titan’s tightening grip. He doesn’t stop even when the boy begs for him to stop and his companions watch, wanting to intervene but their feet are frozen to the ground and all they can do is watch helplessly. Porco doesn’t stop even as the boy begins to shudder in his hand, heaving over a cough up blood from being crushed.  _

_ He opens his palm and the boy lays there, body broken as he breathes shallowly, eyes barely open. Porco licks his lips, as the boy’s scent fills his lungs, and he slowly brings the pathetic being closer to his open mouth.  _

_ The monster within him hums in delight, but another voice in the back of his mind screeches to make this stop. _

Stop! Stop! **Stop!** _Porco screams internally, but his cries go unheard as the dying boy is brought closer and closer to the Titan’s jaws._ It’s Marcel! Stop it. It’s Marcel! 

_ But the boy is dropped into his mouth nevertheless and Porco can’t stop himself from bringing his mouth down with a terrible  _ crunch!  _ Tears stream down his face even as bones shatter and flesh is ripped between his teeth, the boy crying, wailing, shrieking until his voice dies out and Marcel is silent forevermore. Porco hates how satisfying he finds it all — the taste of the boy’s sweet flesh on his tongue, the warm blood dripping down his throat, and how terribly filling it is. Tears spill down his cheeks, dripping hot as they burn across his skin, and still he can’t stop from gnashing his teeth together and licking lips to get every last bit of the small human. Even when the boy is gone, he licks his hand clean until not even a drop of blood is left.  _

_ When Porco is finished, the other children are gone, but the Titan feels satiated, the hunger in the pit of his stomach gone. But an overwhelming wave of shame also washes over him and tears continue to fall down his cheeks. He curls back into the hole that had once been his bed and wraps himself tightly into a ball. He lets the tears fall down his cheeks, wetting the soil beneath him. Porco feels hollow once more, this time in his chest, and he knows it’s a void that will never be filled. Heartbroken, the Titan lifts its head and lets out an earth-shattering scream.  _

* * *

Porco wakes with an unbearably dry throat and a pounding headache. He sits up and the pain in his head only intensifies with the pressure the worst at the base of his head. He clutches at his head with both of his hands, wheezing as he dry heaves between his legs. When he opens his eyes, he sees himself sitting in a pool of blood. There’s no body, but he already knows whose blood it is. 

A hand rests comfortingly on his back, rubbing gently up and down his spine. When he glances behind him, he sees Pieck behind him with Zeke looming close by. Porco opens his mouth to say something only to heave forward, hating how he can still taste blood on his tongue. 

“... alright?” he hears Pieck saying, her voice muted as if she’s speaking through water. 

“I killed him,” Porco croaks, looking down at his blood-soaked hands. He rubs them off on his clothes but that only smears the blood onto the cotton of his shirt, painting more of himself with blood. “Pieck, I killed him. I saw Marcel a-and … I  _ killed  _ him.” He’s babbling on about Marcel, how he had seen his brother die, how he had heard his brother’s cries, how he had felt the life leave his brother’s body. 

“I’ll get a doctor,” Zeke murmurs, clapping a hand on Pieck’s shoulder before leaving to fetch assistance. 

Pieck holds Porco close, wrapping her arms around him and allowing him to muffle his babbling in her neck. She kneels in the blood with him, paying no attention to how the scarlet begins to soak her military uniform. “It’s okay, Porco, it was someone else’s memory,” Pieck whispers as she runs a hand through Porco’s hair. “It wasn’t you. You didn’t kill him. You didn’t kill anyone.” 

They both know the last statement is untrue, but Porco lets himself believe it for a little while if only to lessen the guilt that’s eating away at his bones. He lets Pieck comfort him, a gentle hand rubbing circles on his back, as he struggles to breathe. Porco can feel the lump in his throat returning and he tries to breathe harder, faster, hoping that it will somehow make the pain go away. It only makes it harder for him to breathe and soon he’s beating a fist at his chest, telling Pieck he can’t breathe, he can’t fucking  _ breathe _ . 

“Hey, Porco, it’s fine. You’re not there. You’re here,” Pieck says in a soothing tone. She strokes his cheek before cupping his face in her hands so that he’s forced to look into her eyes. “Breathe. Deeply. In and out. Let it all out, everything you’re feeling. Cry if you have to. Just don’t hold it in. I promise you’ll feel better afterward.” 

Porco shakes his head, but Pieck holds his head still. He opens his mouth, but no words come out, breathing instead in stuttered breaths.  _ I shouldn’t, _ he wants to tell her,  _ I can’t _ , but he feels something wet and hot trickling down his cheek and onto his chin. He swipes at his face with the back of his hand and sees the tears he was unable to shed for all these years. It’s suddenly so real to him now, the realization that he’ll never see Marcel again and the fact that his brother’s last moments were not beautiful or brave. They were horrifying, the type of death nobody should ever suffer. For the past few weeks, all Porco heard was that his brother was a brave Warrior that had selflessly sacrificed himself for his country, but Marcel wasn’t any of that. Marcel was just a child who hadn’t even made it an hour into foreign land before dying a brutal death. He had hardly even begun to live. 

Porco hiccups, trying to swallow them down and stop them from overflowing, but he breaks like a dam and finds himself clutching onto Pieck as he cries like a child. All the while, Pieck holds him, stroking his hair and telling him it’s fine. 

“Just cry,” she tells him, her voice just a whisper. “It’ll be alright, Porco. Just cry.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I was really about one page into this when I realized "Oh, maybe this is too sad, but I should write more." I'm really happy with a lot of it, so I hope you guys liked it too ^^ Is it this year that's making me write so much angst? Sometimes I want to write fluff, but I feel like angst is easier to write nowadays. 
> 
> There are a lot of little things I wrote in here. I think Porco's relationship to everyone, especially Marcel, is really interesting and I wanted to explore it in here. Porco is such an interesting character in general. I didn't think about him much when he was first introduced in the manga, but he really grew on me. He was fun to write, but of course, Pieck is my favorite. I don't know why, but she's always so satisfying to write. 
> 
> Please leave a comment and/or kudos if you guys enjoyed it ^^ Have a good day~


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